


Heart of a Saint, Life of a Sinner

by shittyshittyfuckmytitty



Category: RDR - Fandom, Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Gay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 05:10:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16886226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittyshittyfuckmytitty/pseuds/shittyshittyfuckmytitty
Summary: Shortly after Sean MacGuire gets shot in the head in Rhodes, Arthur decides to go out the same way, too.





	Heart of a Saint, Life of a Sinner

“I love you.”

Drunken words fell off of Arthur’s tongue miserably, the words thrusting a dagger through his heart. The once pure white shirt was now brown due to the fact it was stained with mud, his black trousers damp with grime and his face caked with tears, but he took a large sip out of the whiskey bottle anyway, not caring whether or not he looked like he belonged on the streets. His finger trailed over the indents, feeling every letter, every word, every name, gentle sobs escaping Arthur’s mouth as he did so. It was never meant to end that way, but it did.

It ended the way Arthur promised him it wouldn’t.

The Gray’s. Arthur hated them. A pit of rage took over him whenever he thought about the family. The feud between the two families– the Braithwates and the Gray’s tore the camp apart more than he’d care to admit. Tore him apart more than he’d ever care to admit, more than he ever wanted to admit. They tore apart a potential family between him and the love of his life. Arthur’s eyes trailed over the words again– blinking a few times to get rid of the tears. 

It didn’t matter whether Arthur was crying, the rain was pelting down on him so hard he didn’t know what was a raindrop and what was a teardrop. Maybe it was the fact the weight of the world sat on his shoulders or the fact he was drunk off of his ex-lover’s favourite drink, but he couldn’t even be bothered to stand up and walk away from the gravestone stuck carelessly into the mud. Arthur lowered his hat to the ground, placing it down carefully, a sad smile playing on his lips.

“I loved you, so so much. You don’t even understand what you’ve done to me, you Irish fool,” he laughed through his tears, letting them drip down his face slowly. “Life is real bad without you. I can’t bare to look at anyone anymore. Camp’s sad. Without your presence, it feels empty. I feel empty.”

Arthur sniffled slightly, taking another swig out of the bottle, raising it in the air, before lowering it again. “Sometimes I’ll wear that silly little green hat you always had on your head. You remember that? I hated it. So did Dutch. Talking of Dutch… Dutch don’t know what to do with me anymore. He says I’m broken. He don’t want me near no guns. I ain’t sure whether to believe him or not. He’s probably right. I’m not okay at the moment.”

The Irishman’s presence was a shadow in Arthur’s mind. It killed Arthur when he saw the bullet rip through his head, as he watched his lovers body stiffen up and then go limp and fall. It killed him collecting the body, it killed him knowing he’d never be able to kiss the Irishman or hear his voice again. The death of Arthur’s lover killed Arthur too, and he felt as-if he barley knew who he was after Rhodes¬– all because of a simple death. All because of the loss of a love one. You couldn’t spot one of the best gunslingers in the Van Der Lind gang without a bottle in his hand, a green hat on his head or a gun in his mouth that was empty because Dutch made sure to take all of Arthur’s bullets.

Arthur could recall the day that he met the man of his dreams so clearly. The Irishman had been taken into camp and on that day he was shy and quiet, but Arthur decided to approach him, Mary clinging by his side. The second he set eyes on the dainty man in the little green hat, his breath was taken away and he finally felt comfort. Arthur took him in without a doubt, showing him attention, giving him advice every now and then, teaching him the gang’s ways.

“I wish you would just come back. You don’t know what it’s like to live without you, you fool. I.. I don’t know what to do. Everyday without you is like.. it’s like hell on earth,” the outlaw spat sourly, the tears falling down his cheeks like a waterfall, “I can’t hear an Irish accent without hearing or thinking about you anymore. I can’t look at Molly O’Shea and I ain’t even able to look at the remains of your tent. I can’t look in the mirror. I can’t look at the wedding ring on my finger.”

He dropped the now-empty whiskey bottle that he had chugged within thirty minutes before picking up the revolver next to him. Dipping into his satchel, Arthur pulled out a bullet, putting it in the gun. The one bullet he managed to steal from Micah’s tent. It wasn't hard to do. Hell, it was one of the easiest things Arthur could've done. 

Arthur laughed blandly, his eyes dull and low, gazing down at the gun. “You had the heart of a saint, Sean, but the life of a god damned sinner. If there’s a God, I pray you’re with him. You could bedazzle someone just with that amazing smile of yours, so you probably are. Probably drinking a beer with him too.”

Opening his mouth wide, Arthur pressed the barrel of the gun to the back of his throat, letting his eyes run over his lover’s gravestone, the wedding ring callous on his ring-finger. He smiled sadly, squeezing his eyes shut, the last and final tear falling down his face. A gentle sob wracked through Arthur’s body and without hesitation, he pulled the trigger swiftly, not without quickly muttering:

“I love you, Sean MacGuire.”


End file.
